


Car Salesmen and Communism

by marginaliana



Category: Clue (1985)
Genre: Canon-Typical Character Death, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Farce, Gen, Misses Clause Challenge, Period-Typical Sexism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-12
Updated: 2013-12-12
Packaged: 2018-01-04 09:49:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1079518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marginaliana/pseuds/marginaliana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Six months later, in the spring of 1955, five murderers discover what really happened. [Follows from the third ending of the film.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Car Salesmen and Communism

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kariszma83](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kariszma83/gifts).



It was not a dark and stormy night. It was, instead, a slightly overcast Tuesday morning. Five pairs of eyes regarded the morning newspaper with confusion and mounting horror.

[](http://imgur.com/GIK2qOR)  
[Newspaper clipping: _Police are investigating the death of local automobile salesman Howard Wilson, who was found dead of several stab wounds at his business on Monday morning. Officers responded to a telephone call from an employee of the business who discovered the body when he came in to open the office. A police statement indicated that foul play is suspected._ ]

By nine a.m. seven cups of coffee had been drunk, two husbands had been dispatched to their offices, one dog was borrowed from a neighbor, various morning appointments had been rescheduled, and five individuals were gradually making their way to an undistinguished office building in an undistinguished Virginia suburb.

The sign over the front door read 'Williams Personnel Agency.' None of them had visited it before, but it was familiar to them as an address on a letter: an address to which they had each written regularly over the last few months.

> "Communism!" said the detective, so loudly that Mrs. Peacock twitched. They had been taken from Hill House by police van, driven to a small warehouse just outside the nearest town, photographed, fingerprinted. Now they were seated in the middle of the warehouse, evening dress somewhat incongruous against the stacks of pallets that were serving as chairs. The detective paced in front of them, his beige fedora tipped slightly down over his face. Occasionally one hand came up to stroke his beard. Mr. Green stood behind him, arms folded over his chest. 
> 
> "The fight against Communism is the most important struggle that this country is facing today," the detective continued. "We are in desperate times. I'm sure I don't need to tell you that."
> 
> Miss Scarlet made a small, indignant huff. "What the hell do any of us care about Communism?"
> 
> "You'll have bigger problems than Communism if you don't let me speak to my husband at once," said Mrs. Peacock, stamping her foot.
> 
> "What we need is information," the detective said, ignoring them both. "Inside information. We need to know who has access to our country's secrets, who has weaknesses that could leave them vulnerable to Communist spies." He stopped pacing suddenly, and turned to look a sputtering Mrs. Peacock straight in the eye. "Therefore, the FBI is prepared to offer you a deal. Agree to take part in some information-sharing activities, and you can go. You'll have to sign a confession, of course. Just in case."
> 
> It dawned on them one by one what he was implying. "An informant?" Colonel Mustard said, sounding shocked. "Really! What kind of bastards do you think we are?"
> 
> Mr. Green snorted. "The kind that would murder someone in cold blood, perhaps?"
> 
> "That is entirely different!" the colonel protested.
> 
> The detective shrugged. "You can always choose jail time." 
> 
> For a long moment, no one spoke. Then Miss Scarlet tossed her hair back. "Well," she said. "Hooray for America. Sign me up."

\----

When Mrs. Peacock arrived outside the building, there was no one else in sight. She parked her car on the street and got out, looking up and down the block. The building she wanted was just here – Williams Personnel Agency. It took up the whole length of the block on one side, while the other side of the street faced the rear of a used car lot, fenced off. The building was two stories high, gray, and unrelentingly bland. Mrs. Peacock thought that if she had been asked to choose a location to serve as an undercover FBI information drop off point, she wouldn't have chosen this one. And yet it _was_ that, she knew – at least, the address was right. She'd never actually visited it herself, just sent letter after letter after letter. But if she were going to find out the truth, surely she'd find it here. 

She walked quickly to the front entrance, noticing only as she reached the door that the building was dark inside. There was a closed sign hanging there, and the handle refused to turn under her hand. _Odd,_ she thought. _It's the middle of the morning. If anything, the place ought to—_

A sudden noise made her spin around, one hand to her mouth in shock, and she found herself face to face with a man. He was beady-eyed, unkempt, and holding the leash of a small, white poodle. After a moment she recognized him: Professor Plum. They stared at each other. Obviously she wasn't the only one to have read the newspaper this morning. Or perhaps he was the murderer. Or, well, actually, she knew he was _a_ murderer, but was he a recent murderer, was he _the_ murderer? And what exactly did he know about the FBI and the car salesman?

"I was just walking my dog," offered Professor Plum. "In the neighborhood, you know. His name is... Rex. We always go for a walk this time of day." 

Mrs. Peacock looked down at the poodle, which was beginning to chew aggressively on the Professor's left shoe. "Of course," she said. "And I was..." She latched onto the first excuse she could think of. "...visiting the agency because I'm thinking of hiring a new assistant. Being a senator's wife, there's just so much to keep track of, and the last one really was not up to scratch."

"Ah, of course," said Professor Plum. He looked her up and down, as if assessing, though Mrs. Peacock was sure she didn't want to know what kind of thoughts were running through his head. In the end, though, all he said was, "They don't seem to be open, however."

"Yes," Mrs. Peacock said. They stared at each other for another long moment. 

"I'm certain it's merely an administrative error," the Professor said. "They wouldn't want to lose your business over a trifle like this."

"I'm sure you're right," said Mrs. Peacock. 

"May I borrow your hatpin?" asked Professor Plum.

\-----

A few minutes later Colonel Mustard parked his car on a nearby street. As he climbed out he consulted the scrap of paper on which he had written the address, then sauntered as casually as he could manage towards the agency. He noticed the darkened windows a few steps from the door, and then the 'closed' sign. _Damn!_ he thought. _How am I supposed to threaten someone for answers when no one is even here?_

It occurred to him, after a moment, that even if the building was empty of people, it might still contain other things. Evidence, for example. If only he could get inside.

He glanced casually down the street to each side, then dashed around the side of the building. The first few windows were too close to the street and still very visible, but the fourth window from the front was mostly hidden from view by a bush. The colonel jimmied the lock open with the flat of his Swiss Army knife and he had the window half-raised when a good-looking woman in a trim, gray suit came around the corner from the rear of the building.

"I'm not a burglar," he said automatically, putting his hands in the air. And then, when his eyes got as far up as her face: "Miss Scarlet!" 

She rolled her eyes. "I was wondering when you'd notice." 

"What are you doing here?" he asked.

"Same as you, I suppose," she said, shrugging. "Looking for answers. Not being a burglar."

"We should be not burglars together!" said Colonel Mustard. 

Miss Scarlet huffed. "I've heard worse lines," she said, "but not lately."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Forget it." She looked down at her skirt for a moment, then up at the window. "I'm not sure this is going to work," she said, gesturing at both with her handbag.

Colonel Mustard sensed an opportunity. "I'll help you up," he said quickly. "Ladies first."

\----

Mrs. White paid the cab driver and stepped out onto the sidewalk, clutching her handbag tightly. There were no lights on in the agency's windows but one at the far left of the upper story. As she watched, a silhouette became dimly visible against the brightness, then disappeared as the person moved away from the window. Mrs. White went to the front door, and when she turned the knob she found it unlocked. She tilted her head to one side, hummed, then shrugged and went in.

Inside the door the building opened up into a two level atrium. In the dim light she could see that there was a large staircase leading up to the second floor and hallways leading off behind it on each side. Just inside the door to the left was a large receptionist's desk. A growling noise made her spin around rapidly; on the other side of the doorway was a waiting area with a few chairs and a low table covered with a selection of magazines. There was a small dog tied by its leash to one leg of the table, its teeth bared as it pulled against the restraint. The white bob of its tail wagged aggressively. Mrs. White regarded the poodle.

"I've heard dog is quite favored as a dish in some countries," she said. The dog sat down suddenly.

\-----

"Someone else has been here," said Colonel Mustard, midway down the hall. They'd climbed through the window into a small office set with two rows of dented metal desks and a dusty chalkboard. The office, in turn, had opened onto a darkened hallway that ended in the front atrium at one end and disappeared into darkness on the other. The first few offices from the rear end were all identical – the same desks, the same chalkboard – and they'd searched through them in just the diffused light that filtered through the blinds, enough to ascertain the absence of even a scrap of useful information.

To be honest, Miss Scarlet thought she'd have made better progress on her own. On the other hand, she didn't particularly want to let the colonel out of her sight. If the detective had been working some sort of con, what was to stop the Colonel from being part of it, too?

So she was stuck with him, for now, but she didn't have to like it. Someone else had been here? Of course someone had been here – it was an office building. It ought to have been teeming with people. But they had been exploring the building for ten minutes and had yet to see a single one.

"Who?" she asked, glancing behind them. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Colonel Mustard bend down to pick something up, and when she turned to look at it she discovered it was a hat – large, made of straw, and decorated with a white ribbon and a curled white feather. She took it out of his hands and twirled it around one finger. "Someone with dreadful taste, I see."

A footstep sounded at the end of the hallway. 

"Quick," hissed Miss Scarlet, dropping the hat. "In here." She pulled open the nearest door, neatly labeled 'Maintenance' in crisp, white letters, and shoved Colonel Mustard inside. 

"Miss Scarlet!" said the colonel, and then, "You only had to ask, my dear."

"Shut up," she said, and pulled the door shut behind them. The closet was small and half filled with cleaning supplies – wire shelves, a mop and bucket, a small collection of plastic solvent bottles. It smelled like bleach. When the door closed, it was pitch black but for a thin line of slightly lighter shadow around the edges of the door.

Colonel Mustard was pressed right up against her. It occurred to Miss Scarlet, suddenly, that perhaps getting into an enclosed space with him hadn't been the best idea she'd ever had. What if he had a weapon? What if he took the opportunity to get rid of her?

On the other hand, given the feeling of something determinedly poking into her rear, perhaps she'd rather it was a weapon.

The sound of footsteps stopped just outside the closet. If she concentrated, she could just make out the murmur of the occasional word as the person spoke. "… papers... burn..." Colonel Mustard's hand slid up her back. She tried to squirm away without actually moving.

The footsteps moved away. For a long moment, there was only silence. Miss Scarlet let herself breathe out. "I don't think he saw us," she whispered.

"Who?" whispered Colonel Mustard.

"Whoever that was."

"Whoever _what_ was?"

"That— Oh, forget it." She groped for the doorknob in the dark, found it, and twisted. It completely failed to move. "Ah," she said.

\-----

Professor Plum and Mrs. Peacock stood at the top of the main staircase. A set of double doors there opened onto a large lecture room, and hallways led off towards the rear of the building on each side.

"Which way?" Professor Plum asked. He watched Mrs. Peacock out of the corner of his eye as she glanced from one hallway to the other. Perhaps she wasn't exactly the person he'd have chosen to explore the place with, but he could hardly let her out of his sight now. "I think we should stick together," he said, putting one hand on her arm. 

Mrs. Peacock turned before he'd even finished saying it. "Don't touch me," she snapped, and whacked him on the shoulder with her handbag. "My husband is a senator, you know. When he hears about this—"

The professor snorted. "I'm sure he'd be fascinated to know the circumstances," he said, but he held up his hands in a placating gesture. "Tell me," he continued. "Does he know where you are at the moment?"

Her chin went up. "He's a very busy man."

"I'm sure," said Professor Plum. They stared at each other for a moment. "Which way, then?" he said. "Since I gather you've been here before..." 

"Are you trying to get me to admit to something?"

"So you have something to admit to?" he shot back. 

"Certainly not! You won't win a confession from anyone with a tactic like _that_."

"Aha!" he said. "So you have something to confess. Something about the detective, perhaps? Or car salesman. Or whatever he was."

Mrs. Peacock stamped her foot. "If I knew something about him, I'd hardly be wandering around this dreadful place."

"You might, if you were covering your tracks," he said. "If you were planning to destroy the evidence."

"What evidence?" she said. "I don't know anything about evidence!"

"You insist on your innocence, then?"

"No!" she hissed, and then, sputtering, "I don't—No. Yes! Yes, I certainly do insist on my innocence." She glared at him, then deliberately swung her arm back and whacked him with the handbag again.

"It seems to me that you suffer from violent tendencies," said the professor. "What we call sociopathic."

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean," she said stiffly. "Look, this is hardly getting us anywhere." She pointed to the left hallway. "You go that way, and I'll take the other."

He hesitated for a moment, then nodded reluctantly. 

\-----

Miss Scarlet rattled the doorknob as much as she dared, but it resolutely refused to move. "Great," she said. "Just great. Now what do we do?"

"I have an idea or two," the colonel said. 

"I'm sure you do." She removed his hand from her backside for the third time. "But if you don't keep that to yourself I'm going to cut it off." She didn't just mean the hand, though it would do for a start. Perhaps Mrs. White had had the right of things.

Without warning the door opened. Miss Scarlet overbalanced and only just caught herself before tumbling onto the floor. Colonel Mustard was not as lucky, and landed on his side with an audible huff of breath.

"So sorry," said Mrs. White, her hand still on the doorknob. "I didn't mean to disturb you."

_Speak of the devil..._ Miss Scarlet thought, and then snorted. "What are you doing here?" she asked suspiciously. 

"Oh," said Mrs. White, waving a hand vaguely. "Just visiting. It's so nice to drop in sometimes on the people you know. You learn so much about someone that way." She eyed the colonel, who by now had picked himself up off the floor. "I suppose I don't need to ask what you're doing here."

"I'm conducting a military investigation," said Colonel Mustard stiffly. 

"Is that what they're calling it these days?" Mrs. White said. "And they let you bring your dog along?"

"Dog?" said Miss Scarlet.

"Dog?" said Colonel Mustard.

\-----

Mrs. Peacock had explored three rooms, each filled with desks lined up in regular rows and set with typewriters, when she heard footsteps at the other end of the hallway. She peered towards the noise, but the darkness was impenetrable. "Professor?" she said softly. There was no answer, though the footsteps paused in their movement. It suddenly seemed the height of folly to be caught here, so she pulled open the nearest door and ducked inside, taking care not to let it slam behind her. 

With the door shut, the room was pitch black. Mrs. Peacock held herself still with one hand on the doorknob. Her skin crawled and it felt as if the darkness itself was watching her. The footsteps came closer, then hesitated, then walked on. 

When she could no longer hear them she stood up straight and forced herself to breathe out. She groped for the light switch beside the door. But all she could feel was the smooth plaster of the wall under her hand, and then she stumbled and had not even that to anchor her. 

She took one step in the darkness, then another, hands held out blindly in front of herself. Then, deciding this must be the wrong direction, she spun in what seemed to be the opposite direction and took two large steps— and ran into something large and unyielding. It caught at her hair and her arms. Something horrible slithered past her face and then down over her shoulder. She batted it with her handbag and opened her mouth to scream— and stumbled backwards before she could do more than draw breath. She landed against a flat surface, against the wall. The nub of the light switch jabbed hard into one shoulder. She groped for it, half-turned so that she could grasp it between her fingers and flick the light on.

It came on like a firework, and for a moment she couldn't see anything but bright whiteness. When the blindness cleared she discovered that she was facing a large machine, perhaps six foot high. Tape reels were in place on its two arms and yards of tape hung in tangles between them. A set of buttons on one of the arms was labeled "Fast Rewind | Fast Forward | Dictate | Listen | Stop."

\---

"Are you certain it's a dog?" said Colonel Mustard as Mrs. White led them back towards the front of the building.

Behind them, Miss Scarlet snorted.

"It has four legs and went 'woof,'" said Mrs. White. "But since you're a man, I suppose you're going to tell me there's a distinct possibility it might be a duck."

The colonel sputtered. "I wasn't going to say any such thing." The atrium was a little brighter than the hallway and as they passed into it there was just enough light to make out the shape of the reception desk, the waiting area with its table and chairs, the compact menace of the poodle, straining against the end of its leash. When they stepped closer, it caught sight of Mrs. White and fell silent.

"Well, it isn't mine," Colonel Mustard said finally.

"I'm shocked to hear it," said Mrs. White. "Given that you've just spent the last five minutes disputing its existence."

"I can only imagine that your husbands let themselves be murdered just so they didn't have to listen to you carrying on!" the colonel burst out.

Mrs. White's eyes went wide and she put her hand over her mouth. "I've never been so insulted in my life," she said indignantly. 

"I do beg your pardon," the colonel said, feeling vaguely guilty for his outburst. He turned to give Miss Scarlet a pleading glance, then kept on turning when he found she wasn't there. When he'd completed a full circle he found himself facing Mrs. White again. She looked as astonished as he felt. "Where did she go?" he said.

\-----

Miss Scarlet reached the top of the stairs and stared between the two hallways for only a moment before she shrugged and took the one on the left. It was darker here than on the first floor, the gray light seeping in through the blinds of narrow windows only to be filtered even further by towering file cabinets and the occasional potted plant.

The first couple of offices she searched contained nothing of particular interest – in one, a cabinet full of files labeled with women's names that caught her interest but turned out to be nothing more than typing proficiency exams; in the next, records of clients and filled positions, a few notated amusingly with comments such as 'only send women over 50' and 'temper like a deranged crocodile'.

She backed out of the office, pulling the door closed behind her, then jumped as she ran smack into something solid. She whirled around.

Professor Plum was wearing a smirk that she immediately wanted to slap off him. She settled, instead, for rolling her eyes and drawling out, "Oh, it's you. Goody, goody, the gang's all here."

"Are we?" he said, raising an eyebrow. "That is rather fascinating."

"Well, White and Mustard are, anyway. I don't know about Peacock. She'll turn up sooner or later, I'd wager."

"Oh, yes," said the professor. "She's here. Somewhere." He waved a hand vaguely, then took a step closer to her, the smirk intensifying.

Miss Scarlet took a step back. "Maybe I'd better go and look for her."

"I'll come with you," he said. "It might be dangerous. There could be a murderer out there, you know."

"I'm sure of it," she muttered. 

"Pardon?"

"Oh, nothing," said Miss Scarlet. "What else is on this hallway?"

"Nothing of interest," said Professor Plum. "Though I do think you and I should go check out what's behind that door over there." 

She followed the line of his pointed finger to a door, neatly labeled 'Maintenance' in crisp, white letters. "Ah, certainly," she said. "I'll be right behind you."

\-----

Mrs. White opened the third door in the left side hallway, revealing a small kitchenette. A smooth expanse of countertop encompassed both a small sink and a two-burner stovetop. At the far end of the counter was a small knife block. The metal of the blades gleamed in the dim light where they protruded from the wood. She crossed to it and slid one of the knives from the block just to feel the way the two surfaces scraped against each other.

"What are you doing?" asked Colonel Mustard.

Mrs White turned, still holding the knife, and he put his hands in the air with gratifying speed.

"Let's not be hasty!" he said.

"The car salesman," she said. "Did you kill him?"

"I most certainly did not!" said the colonel, quivering with what seemed to be a combination of indignation and fear.

"And did you know that he was..." She made a vague gesture with the point of the knife. "A car salesman?"

"I—" said Colonel Mustard. "No, I did not."

_He knows nothing,_ Mrs. White decided. "You remind me of my husband, a little," she said. "He gets that same look in his eye."

"Your husband? I thought he was dead!"

She gave him a flat look. "My current husband," she said.

"Ah," said the Colonel stupidly. "Your fifth husband."

"Sixth," she said. "My fifth husband was an accountant."

"And after he married you, he found his number was up?" said the colonel.

Mrs. White sniffed. "If you want to be indelicate." She looked him up and then down. "Are you married, Colonel?" She let herself smile as he took a slow step backwards. 

"I'm going to... see if I can find Miss Scarlet," he said. "She might be frightened."

When he'd disappeared from sight, Mrs. White turned back to the counter and slotted the knife back into the block. "Men," she said.

\-----

Mrs. Peacock's heart had just about slowed to normal when she heard another footstep in the hallway. She hurriedly switched off the light. The darkness seemed less menacing this time, although it felt as if the dictation machine was laughing silently behind her back. She found the doorknob and twisted it slowly, pulling the door open just a crack.

A female silhouette was just barely visible in the dim light of the hallway. As Mrs. Peacock watched, the woman began opening doors, peering into one office briefly and then actually disappearing into the next for half a minute. When the woman emerged from the second office, a shaft of light fell across her face and after a moment Mrs. Peacock recognized her.

"Miss Scarlet," she hissed, just loud enough to be heard.

Miss Scarlet spun around sharply, one hand fisted in her handbag. Mrs. Peacock smirked, then pulled open the door and stepped out into the hallway. "Here," she said. 

"Who— Oh," said Miss Scarlet. "Mrs. Peacock." She looked down the hallway both ways, first left and then right. "Thought you were the professor for a moment." 

"I could go and get him, if you like," said Mrs. Peacock, more waspishly than she meant to.

"Eugh," said Miss Scarlet, giving a little shudder. "No thanks. I'm going to have to scrub disgusting old man off myself as it is."

Mrs. Peacock felt her shoulders ease a little. "Well, if you're certain," she said, dryly. 

"I'm certain," said Miss Scarlet. She cocked a hip to one side, all casual friendliness if you didn't catch the veiled menace in her eyes. Mrs. Peacock hadn't gotten as far as she had without being able to spot that. "What are you doing in this dead end town, then?" said Miss Scarlet. "In the market for a used car? There's a nice place across the street, I hear."

"I don't buy _used_ cars. My husband is a senator," said Mrs. Peacock automatically, then shook her head as the insinuation registered. "And no, I certainly had nothing to do with... that man." She sniffed. 

Miss Scarlet eyed her for a moment, then nodded. "I suppose not. For what it's worth, neither did I. I've got better ways of finding things out than stabbing someone."

Mrs. Peacock sniffed again, purely reflex, but she supposed she might as well believe her. She gave a stiff nod.

"So," said Miss Scarlet. "I've had a look through most of the rooms up here, haven't found a thing. What's in that one?" She gestured towards the room Mrs. Peacock had just come out of. Mrs. Peacock thought about the dictation machine.

"Nothing of interest," she said. 

\-----

Colonel Mustard walked as softly as he could up the large staircase to the second floor. It seemed darker up there, he thought, though he wasn't quite sure why. It was quiet, too, but for the soft sound of his footsteps and the faint soundtrack of the dog growling in the atrium. The quiet made him feel distinctly uneasy. At the top of the stairs he eyed the two hallways, then shrugged and chose the left one. He'd have to start somewhere, and surely she couldn't be far. 

\-----

Miss Scarlet tiptoed down the stairs at the rear of the building, careful for fear of losing her step in the dark. Mrs. Peacock had proved to have no more information than any of the rest of them, and given that having a conversation with her was as entertaining as accidentally getting gin in one's eye, Miss Scarlet had decided she'd rather go back to Mrs. White and Colonel Mustard. At least watching the two of them maneuvering around each other was mildly amusing.

On the other hand, now that she was in the dark of the stairwell she was beginning to feel a little uneasy. The click of her shoes against the floor seemed unnaturally loud in the quiet of the building, but when she stopped moving for a moment the only sound she could hear was the faint hush of wind outside. 

\-----

"Miss Scarlet?" the colonel whispered. He'd made a cursory exploration of most of the offices along the hall, opening the door of each one and sticking his head in long enough to ensure that they were empty. Some of them held cabinets of files that he half-thought to investigate, but it seemed more important, at the moment, to find Miss Scarlet. He'd even looked in the maintenance closet, taking care not to let the door close behind him – but it, too, was empty.

She was a smart woman, he thought. He'd find her in a room somewhere, and they'd find the answers together. 

Either that, or she'd try to murder him. 

He put his hand into his pocket, felt the reassuring shape of the handle of his pistol. If she did try it, he'd be ready. But first he had to find her.

\-----

When Miss Scarlet reached the bottom floor, she went to the hallway where she'd left Colonel Mustard and Mrs. White, but an exploration of the rooms along its length found them all unoccupied. Among the offices she found a small kitchenette – two cupboards were open there, and a drawer, as if someone had been searching through them. But there was no one in sight.

Perhaps one of them had done away with the other and was even now hiding the evidence. Or perhaps they both were lying in wait somewhere, plotting to murder her. 

She flicked open the catch of her handbag and checked to make sure her pistol was still there. The smooth feeling of the handle was reassuring.

\-----

Professor Plum was investigating another office full of files when he heard the sound of footsteps in the hall. Miss Scarlet had disappeared as soon as he'd opened the door of the maintenance closet, and it didn't seem likely she'd be back so quickly. Maybe someone had hauled her off and murdered her. Or maybe she just hadn't been in the mood for company. He never could tell, with women.

The footsteps came closer. Professor Plum glanced quickly around the room for a hiding place, then ducked behind a filing cabinet.

The door opened and someone stepped inside, just a pace or two past the threshold. Professor Plum reached into his pocket and curled his hand around the handle of his gun. He held his breath.

"Miss Scarlet?" asked a whispering voice. He couldn't tell if it was male or female, though he didn't think it sounded like Mrs. Peacock, somehow. "Miss Scarlet?"

After a moment, whoever it was walked back out into the hallway and pulled the door shut. Professor Plum rested his forehead on the cool metal of the filing cabinet and breathed out as quietly as he could manage.

_Who was that?_ he wondered.

\-----

As Mrs. Peacock opened yet another door and peered inside to discover yet another dull office, she heard yet another set of footsteps. She sighed, heavily. The footsteps hesitated, then came closer.

"Who's there?" said a whispering voice. She couldn't see anything in the darkness, and the voice wasn't quite loud enough for her to put a name to it. Without really understanding why, she ducked into the office in front of her – this one, thankfully, lit just enough by the gray sunshine coming through between the slats of the blinds that she could manage without running into anything. 

There was a desk here, a tall filing cabinet, and a very ugly fake plant. After a moment's hesitation, she ducked behind the filing cabinet. It wouldn't hide her from a thorough search, but it should do for a cursory one, and if all else failed— She quietly pulled open her handbag and reached inside, found the curved handle of the little pistol that she always carried, nowadays.

If someone was going to try to murder her, she'd be ready.

\-----

Mrs. White opened another door on the right side hallway, only to discover yet another set of desks and typewriters. She hadn't imagined there could ever be so many typewriters in one place; if they didn't manage to succeed in figuring out what was going on here, they could at least club together and make a little money selling typewriters. 

A footstep at the end of the hallway made her go still. She turned her head towards it, but the shadows were deep enough there that she couldn't make out more than the hint of a figure. The most reasonable explanation was that it was Colonel Mustard, or Miss Scarlet, but for some reason she didn't think so. For some reason, the footsteps made her uneasy.

She took a step back, slowly, trying not to let her heels click against the floor, and then another, until she'd backed into the room. Another two steps and she was hidden behind the door, staring at the rows of desks and typewriters and listening with all her might. 

The footsteps came closer, unhurried. Slowly, carefully, Mrs. White clicked open the catch on her handbag, then reached inside and curled her fingers around the handle of her gun. It felt reassuringly heavy against her palm.

If someone tried to murder her, well – she'd make sure they wouldn't live to regret it.

\-----

There was the sound of a gunshot.

\-----

Miss Scarlet arrived in the atrium, her gun at the ready. Mrs. White arrived almost at the same moment from the end of the other hallway, pistol clutched in her hand. The others arrived, too, all at once, tumbling down the stairs and half-tripping over each other. Mrs. Peacock's hair was flapping in her face; Colonel Mustard's shoe slipped on the edge of one stair and he caught himself against the balustrade with a huff of breath. Each of them was also holding a gun.

They stared at each other, then turned in unison to look at the body sprawled in the middle of the atrium floor. 

It was a man: pale-haired, wearing a poorly-made suit, and bleeding profusely from the bullet hole in the middle of his forehead. It was, undoubtedly, Mr. Green and he was, undoubtedly, dead.

Just beyond the body, the poodle strained against its leash, teeth bared and growling.

Five people spoke at once.

"Oh, _great_ —"

"Not another—"

"I had absolutely nothing—"

"I suppose he's another car salesman, isn't—"

"This is completely ridicu—"

"Is that why you shot—"

"I suppose that's why you shot—"

"Don't you dare try to pin this—"

"I didn't even know he was—"

"Well, how would I—"

"Get your hands off me, you—"

"You have to admit that rushing down here with a gun looks a little bit suspicious!" Colonel Mustard said heatedly, loud enough to be heard over the din. Everyone else fell silent, their gazes traveling from one pistol to the next in each person's hand.

"And which one of us were you referring to?" said Mrs. White.

"Well, to Miss Sc—" He gestured at her pistol with his own, then seemed to realize what he was doing mid-sentence and closed his mouth with a click.

The sound of a laugh made them all spin around; there was a figure at the top of the stairs, just stepping out of the shadows into the light.

"You!" said four people, more or less in unison. Colonel Mustard merely fell over.

"Yes," said Mr. Boddy. "Me." He was carrying a sheaf of papers in one hand, and a gun in the other. The poodle's growl got even louder.

"But—" Colonel Mustard scrambled to his feet. "Dammit! Doesn't anyone know how to stay dead anymore?"

Mr. Boddy chuckled again. "I suppose if one of you had done the job, I might have," he said. "Instead you left it to someone else." He sneered down, and they all turned briefly to look at the body of Mr. Green. "But of course he knew what he was doing, didn't he? After all, he was an FBI agent."

He let the words hang in the air for a moment. "An FBI agent. Wasn't he?" One eye brow lifted with sly inquiry. "I certainly thought so, at first. All of you were taken away in handcuffs. I lay there, bleeding, thinking that at any moment one of those delightful gentlemen would come over and discover that I wasn't quite dead yet. I wasn't looking forward to it, I can tell you that much. But then, something odd happened." Mr. Boddy leaned forward. "Everyone went away. All of you, yes, but all of the FBI men as well. Shut the door behind them and drove off without another word."

Five pairs of eyes stared at him.

"It took me a bit of time," Mr. Boddy continued, "but I managed to stand up, after that. I bandaged myself, perhaps a bit crudely but well enough to stop the bleeding. No one came back. So I left. Well, I took the police officer's car, first, but it died just before I reached the gate so I had to walk all the way back and take one of the others. To make a long story short—"

"Too late," muttered Professor Plum.

"—I was in New York within a few hours. Then it was just a matter of finding a hospital and telling them I'd been mugged. It was all rather anti-climactic." Mr. Boddy shrugged. "While I was there, waiting for my bullet wound to heal, I had plenty of time to think. Did it not seem odd to any of you that the FBI would be willing to let five people be murdered just to catch one man?" He dragged out the last few words. 

"I just figured they must've known what a spider you are," said Miss Scarlet. 

Mr. Boddy smirked. "Perhaps. But what I found, when I got back to the District, was that there was another explanation for it all. That Mr. Green, and the white-haired detective, and all the other bully boys, didn't work for the FBI – that Mr. Green ran a bar over on H Street and the detective sold cars. And oddly enough, they both seemed to be enjoying unusually large bank accounts." He paused. "They stole _my business_!"

Five people and a dog jumped at the sudden shout.

"My accomplices, my victims," Mr. Boddy continued, more softly but also with greater menace. "They didn't manage to find my cache of evidence – oh, not the stuff that you thought you destroyed, Colonel Mustard, back when we first became friends – my spare evidence, my _insurance_. No, they didn't find it. But then again, I suppose they didn't need to when they had victims as stupid as _you_. Communism!" he said derisively. 

"It could've been communism!" Colonel Mustard protested. 

"Hell, it could have been a crusade for the rights of aging pandas for all I cared," said Miss Scarlet. "The only thing that mattered was the evidence they had against us."

"Ah, yes," said Mr. Boddy. "The evidence. That's what you've all been looking for, isn't it?" He lifted the hand that was holding the papers and waggled them slightly. "All your confessions, so neatly signed. Pity none of you managed to find them. You were too busy having your little reunion."

"So what happens now?" asked Professor Plum.

"Well, since I'm afraid your contacts at the FBI are... tragically deceased..." He sneered in the direction of Mr. Green's body. "… you'll just have to start forwarding your important information to a new address. For the moment, however, I suggest you lock the bodies in one of the maintenance closets, then leave quietly, one at a time."

"And you'll just... carry on blackmailing us?" said Miss Scarlet.

"Yes," said Mr. Boddy. He smiled. It wasn't a very nice smile. He took another step forwards, just to the edge of the top step of the staircase.

There was a loud snapping noise, as if something had been pulled taut and had given way under the pressure. 

Something streaked past Miss Scarlet's left leg – the poodle, growling fiercely, leash trailing out behind it as it ran up the stairs. Mr. Boddy's eyes went wide. He shot, once, but the bullet missed the dog entirely and winged the top of the balustrade instead, sending a shower of splinters into the air.

Mrs. Peacock screamed. The poodle reached the top of the staircase and went for Mr. Boddy's ankle with determination. Mr. Boddy stumbled sideways and away, but tripped over the trailing edge of the leash. His other foot came down on empty air. Both hands flailed wildly for a long moment as he attempted to regain his balance, and pieces of paper went flying. Then he fell down the stairs.

When he came to rest at the bottom, there was a terrible silence. For a moment, no one moved. Then Professor Plum took a hesitant step forward.

Four guns came up to point at him, and he put his hands in the air. "I just want to check—"

"Right," said Colonel Mustard. 

Professor Plum didn't move. Then Mrs. White made an encouraging gesture with her pistol. "Get on with it," she said.

The professor went to his knees and checked Mr. Boddy's pulse.

"He's dead."

"Are you sure?" said Mrs. Peacock sarcastically.

"His spine's broken," said Professor Plum. "Even Jesus couldn't come back from that." He stood up, and in the hand that wasn't gripping his gun, he was holding a single sheet of paper.

"Whose is that?" Miss Scarlet asked.

Professor Plum's eyes flickered downwards. The paper had a name at the bottom that bore no relationship to a color, but he'd done his research. "Mrs. White's." 

Five pairs of eyes glanced around the room to where the other sheets of paper lay scattered.

"I propose we each take one," said Miss Scarlet. "Then trade. Then get the hell out of here."

Colonel Mustard made a choking noise, but nodded, and after a moment the others did, too. The exchange of papers took only a moment – it seemed as though Professor Plum wasn't the only one to have identified the others by their real names. 

When each person had their own confession, Mrs. Peacock said, "And what about..." She gestured at the two bodies.

"Leave them," said the colonel. "It looks like one of them killed the other, then fell down the stairs. Nothing to make anyone suspicious, if we all agree to say nothing." Another round of nods assured their agreement. 

The poodle gave a soft whuff, then, and they all turned to look as it made its way daintily down the stairs, still trailing the ragged fragment of leash. Professor Plum stuffed his confession into his pocket and reached down to grab the end of it. "Well," he said, weakly. "Good doggie?"


End file.
